


against the sun we're the enemy

by akamine_chan



Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Community: no_tags, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:43:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'd been on the road for days, the Exterminator a white shape in the distance.  They'd lose him for a half a day only to turn around and find that smudge on the horizon, blinding bright.  Somehow, it managed to project a predatory sense of menace that set their nerves on edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	against the sun we're the enemy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solarbaby614](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarbaby614/gifts).



> Warning: Non-con drugging with a "truth serum"
> 
> Written for Solarbaby614's prompt _12\. Jet Star/Mikey - MCR are exterminators chasing the Killjoys_
> 
> This kinda veered away from the prompt, but hopefully it's still okay. 
> 
> Thanks to my lovely betas Andeincascade and Lucifuge5, as always. And thanks to the mods for running this challenge.
> 
> Title from _Destroya_ by My Chemical Romance

They'd been on the road for days, the Exterminator a white shape in the distance. They'd lose him for a half a day only to turn around and find that smudge on the horizon, blinding bright. Somehow, it managed to project a predatory sense of menace that set their nerves on edge.

At the next safe house, Poison came up with a plan. There was a bike hidden in the arroyo out back; one of them could draw the Exterminator away, letting the rest of them escape. 

"No." Ghoul was firm about that. "Our best bet is to stay together. Keep moving, find a place to make a stand and take that fucker out. There's only one of him, four of us."

"Exterminator," Kobra reminded him shortly.

Ghoul snorted. "Exterminators can be killed, too. Just harder, is all."

Poison looked at Jet, who shrugged. They were rapidly running out of options. They were down to fumes; no food, no fuel, no choice. "Might work."

"Fuck, no, Jet." Ghoul jittered on the balls of his feet. "No. It's too dangerous—"

"Someone could lead him away and then we could double back and take him from behind. Me or Jet—we're best on the bikes." Kobra looked at Jet, eyebrow raised.

"No—" Ghoul and Poison said in unison.

"Shut up, both of you. Jet, you wanna flip for it?"

Jet shook his head, pushing his hair back over his ears. "I've got it."

There was a long, tense moment; Ghoul looked like he was going to put up a fight, but then he subsided, defeated, because he knew there was no other way. "Fuck."

"It'll be fine." Jet squeezed Ghoul's shoulder reassuringly.

* * *

Fine, Jet realized, was a relative term.

The Exterminator had caught up too quickly and Jet was having a hard time staying ahead on the beat-up old motorcycle. It was designed for off-roading, so Jet used that to his advantage, turning off pavement and onto dirt, gunning the engine.

The road was dusty and rutted, unused in years, but if Jet remembered correctly, there was a building nearby, an old store of some sort, gutted and empty, but maybe, just maybe, Jet could get there in one piece and turn the tables on the damn Exterminator. And if not, he shrugged, at least the gave his crew a fighting chance.

He heard the low rumble of the Exterminator's bike over the noisy roar of his own and risked a look over his shoulder, his heart skipping a beat. Close, the Exterminator was too fucking close, he wasn't going to make it, fuck—

Jet looked back at the road just in time to see the debris, a tangle of metal and wood and he braked and swerved, but it wasn't enough time and there was too much momentum and the bike went down between his legs. He tucked and rolled, and had a fleeting moment to be grateful for the helmet and his leather jacket before the air was driven out of his lungs by a jarring impact against _something_ , agony arcing down his side. He tumbled to a stop, stunned and breathless for a long moment before staggering up to his feet and pushing forward. He had to keep going.

He couldn't hear anything over the pounding of his own heart and he was too afraid to look back. The Exterminator _had_ to be right behind him. Favoring one leg, he lurched into a broken jog, every step driving a knife of pain into his side, his head. He clawed the helmet off and threw it to the side, taking a moment to peer over his shoulder.

The Exterminator had stopped at the top of a small rise, white-clad legs spread wide to hold himself upright on the bike. Jet could feel the weight of his gaze behind the BL/ind helmet and _knew_ in that moment he was being toyed with, like a fucking cat playing with a mouse. 

Fuck that.

Jet veered off the dirt road, into the sandy desert scrub. There was nowhere to hide, but there was the small possibility of outrunning him. The ground would be treacherous for the Exterminator's bike; unlike Jet's, his was a precision machine, made for asphalt and straightaways. The cacti and animal burrows and rocks and dust would slow him down. Jet hoped it would be enough.

It was hard running through the sand and he couldn't get enough air, it hurt too fucking much, like breathing glass. There were spots dancing in front of his eyes, but he didn't stop. He didn't have a choice, he had to distract the Exterminator long enough for his crew to double back and take him out.

He stumbled a little, dropping to his knees and sucking in a gasping breath, digging deep for the strength to lurch onto his feet and _go_. He fell again, scraping his damaged hands on the gravel, and it took him so much effort to get up, but he did, grunting at the pain. 

Looking back, he saw that the Exterminator hadn't moved. He radiated menace, still and poised like a predator about to circle in for the kill. Fear shivered down Jet's back and he swore under his breath, wasting energy. If only—

Jet tripped again and cried out as he went down hard, throwing his hands in front of his face to keep from cracking his skull open on the ground. He was only partially successful, and his vision doubling alarmingly as he tried to get to his hands and knees and crawl. _Keep running_ , Poison's voice said, and he _tried_.

A shadow fell over him and he looked up, dazzled by the sun reflecting off the white jacket and pants of the Exterminator. He reached up and pulled off his helmet, and Jet tried to blink the world back into focus. There was the impression of dark hair, a pale, unsmiling face and a whipcord body before everything faded to black.

* * *

When Jet woke, he was in a lot of pain. It was excruciating, like someone had stabbed him in the side and was turning the knife slowly, scraping it against his ribs before pushing it in deeper. It shortened his breath, leaving him unable to do anything but struggle, trying desperately to get enough air. He was sitting slumped in a chair, hair brushing against his knees. He couldn't feel his hands; they were tied behind the back of the chair, partially supporting him.

"Easy. You're gonna make yourself pass out again, if you're not careful." 

The voice was quiet and familiar, but Jet couldn't focus, couldn't do anything but grit his teeth against the pain and try to get himself under some semblance of control. A hand pushed on his shoulder, helping him sit back against the chair he was in, relieving some of the pressure on his diaphragm.

"You probably cracked a couple of ribs when you took that tumble."

The motherfucking Exterminator. Jet tossed his hair back to get it out of his eyes and looked, but the guy had turned his back and walked out of the room, his boots thunking against the wood floor. Jet glanced around, still feeling a woozy. He was in an old house, in a bedroom with cheerful yellow curtains that were slowly disintegrating. There was a big bed and a side table; seeing the bed planted a seed of fear in the back of his brain.

He'd heard stories, had seen the aftermath, had tried to help the victims. Exterminators did whatever it took to get what they wanted from their captives: pain, blood, sweat and tears. It didn't matter to them, because they weren't human anymore. Whatever BL/ind drugs they were on, it stripped away their emotions until all that was left was a flesh-and-blood machine, a tool, a weapon; you just pointed it in the the right direction and let it do its job.

There was the sound of water and Jet was suddenly aware of how parched he was; he desperately needed something wet, to soothe away the dust and dryness in his throat. "Hey," he tried to call out, choking on the words, coughing. The coughing was a bad idea; it woke the screaming pain in his ribs and the ache from a multitude of bruises that covered his body. He bit back a groan, because he wouldn't, _couldn't_ let the Exterminator see how weak he was.

"Want some water?" the Exterminator asked, and Jet twitched. He knew that voice, he _did_. And when the Exterminator stepped out of the bathroom, it was suddenly clear _why_.

"Kobra?" Jet could hear the disbelief and confusion threading through his voice. His heart twisted in his chest. 

Jet shook his head at himself. Of course it wasn't Kobra. It was a cracked reflection of Kobra, dark to Kobra's blond, cold and bland versus warm and alive. This was an exterminator, someone created and shaped to extract information, to hunt and torture and kill. A BL/ind predator. Not Kobra Kid, Killjoy, zone-runner and best friend. Family.

The Exterminator held a chipped mug up to Jet's mouth and he could _smell_ the water. Jet tilted his head back and drank greedily, not caring that water was running down his chin, a cold trickle, soaking into his thin shirt. The Exterminator pulled the mug away and went back to the bathroom while Jet licked his lips and tried to shake off the dizziness and confusion that made his head feel like it was stuffed with fucking cotton.

It took three more mugs of water before Jet's thirst was satisfied. While he was gulping down the last mug, Jet noticed that the Exterminator's hands were shaking, tiny tremors, easily overlooked. 

"Thanks," he said, before he could stop himself. He'd been raised to be polite and it was a hard habit to break, because here he was, being courteous to the fucking Exterminator who was going to torture and kill him, and would try his damnedest to kill the rest of his family.

Moving to the bed, the Exterminator crossed his long legs under himself and stared at Jet curiously. "Jet Star," he said softly, in Kobra's voice. "Killjoy, rebel, zonerunner, master mechanic. Former employee of BL/ind and good citizen of Battery City. Compatriot to Party Poison, Fun Ghoul, Kobra Kid." He laid his hands, palm up, on his knees. "Your dossier says so much, and actually tells me very little about you. Curious."

The Exterminator's eyes were dark as he looked Jet over from head to toe, taking in the torn and dusty clothes, the bruises, cuts and scrapes, his sweat- and blood-matted hair. Jet lifted his chin, defiant in spite of his fear and pain.

Something in the Exterminator's face lightened, like walking from shadow to shade. "I see," he murmured. "Jet Star." He said Jet's name like he was tasting it. "Tell me how you went from model BL/ind employee to Killjoy."

Jet opened his mouth to say, "Fuck off," because he'd be damned before he'd give this fucker one bit of intel, but what came out instead was his life story. He was drugged, the fucker had _drugged_ him with something that loosed his tongue and made the words spill out of him. He closed his eye as nausea surged through him at his inadvertent betrayal. 

All he could hope for was that Poison was canny enough to sense the trap and take the Killjoys to ground. _Please_ , he thought, _please keep them safe_.

The Exterminator listened without interrupting, letting Jet ramble until he wound down, dry-mouthed and panting.

"More water?" 

Jet had to bit his lip so hard, tasting blood, to keep from saying 'yes.' But he couldn't risk it; he couldn't trust the Exterminator not to dose him with something else or worse, poison him.

Shrugging, the Exterminator started asking specific questions, not about the Killjoys or their activities, but about surviving in the Zones. It was confusing. Jet didn't understand why the Exterminator wanted to know how they traded for food and other necessities, or what they did when they needed parts for the Trans Am or how they washed their clothes.

It made no sense; why wasn't he asking about where the Killjoys stashed their fuel and explosives or how they managed to intercept so many BL/ind transmissions? "Why aren't you asking the right questions?" He couldn't stop himself, because he really didn't understand and the drug seemed to have short-circuited the filter between his brain and his mouth.

Jet saw that the Exterminator's hands were still trembling, the fingers twitching erratically. "Questions?" His voice shook and as Jet watched, he tangled his fingers in his hair and pulled.

It was like watching a machine malfunction. "What's wrong with you?"

The Exterminator laughed, sharp and brittle. "I'm dying. It's been too long since I've had my pills and when I go to sleep I'll die." He shuddered. "And when I wake I'll be reborn." He huddled in on himself and rocked back and forth, muttering. After a while, he straighted and pinned Jet with a look. "Does Kobra Kid know how you feel?"

"What—I don't—no." He looked away, because this was _his_ , too private to share with anyone.

"Tell him," the Exterminator said. "While you still have a chance, tell him." And in the blink of an eye, he pulled himself together, his face expressionless and cold. His hands still shook, but he hid it by clenching them into fists. He went back to asking questions, picking Jet's brain about life in the Zones and how to keep from getting dusted.

* * *

Jet could tell when the drug started to wear off; everything seemed to come sharply into focus. His voice was hoarse from talking and he _ached_ everywhere. The Exterminator had gone through another weird, twitching episode, but beyond that, he'd kept up his continuous barrage of questions for hours.

"No."

The Exterminator raised an eyebrow. "No?" he echoed.

"I'm done," Jet said, feeling his mouth curling stubbornly. "I'm not telling you another damn thing."

"All right." The Exterminator got up and peered out the window. "The rest of the Killjoys should be here in a few hours; I made sure our tracks were easily followed."

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Jet pulled at the tanglewire binding his hands to the chair, fear spiking across his nerves. "What the fuck is happening?"

"There were four of us, once upon a time, in Bat City," the Exterminator murmured, turning back to Jet. His eyes were bright. "Now, there are only two left, me and my brother, and I can't do this alone." He put on his white jacket and brushed futilely at the dust before zipping it up. "I can't leave him there."

"I don't understand, what are you—" He shut his mouth with a snap as the Exterminator grasped Jet's chin with thumb and forefinger, lifting his face up.

"So beautiful." He leaned down a brushed a kissed across Jet's lips. "Tell him. You won't regret it."

And he was gone, like a ghost.

* * *

Poison and the others showed up a few hours later. 

Jet had managed to doze a little, sitting upright in his chair, but was jolted awake by the sound of a door being kicked in. He groaned, because he was hurting.

"Jet? Jet, where the fuck are you?" Ghoul sounded frantic and Jet coughed and shouted, "Here!"

They tumbled through the doorway, three faces with identical looks of relief plastered across them.

"Oh, thank fuck!" Ghoul barreled straight at him, gleefully throwing himself at Jet and knocking the chair over, slamming them hard against the floor. Jet cursed, and Ghoul just hugged him tight and giggled.

"Fuck," Poison murmured, trying to pry Ghoul off Jet while Kobra knelt down and worked on the tanglewire binding his hands to the chair. "C'mon, Ghoul, let Kobra cut him loose so we can get the fuck outta here before the Exterminator comes back."

Jet shook his head. "I don't think he's coming back."

"Oh, yeah?" Poison looked at him.

"Later."

Poison just nodded and pulled Ghoul to his feet. 

Kobra dropped the tanglewire onto the floor and helped massage the feeling back into Jet's hands, standing next to him, quiet and thoughtful. Jet looked at him, let himself really _see_ him for the first time in a long while. "Thanks," he said, and Kobra smiled.

"We were worried," Kobra confessed.

"Me, too," Jet said softly. "We need to talk, when we get back to the diner." Because he wasn't a fool, and the Exterminator had made his point: life was too fucking short. Kobra looked a little wary. "Nothing bad," he reassured. "I just need to tell you how I feel."

"Okay," Kobra said, helping Jet stand up, wincing in sympathy as he groaned. "Let's go home."

"Home," Ghoul giggled.

"Home," Poison said.

* * *

Years later, at one of the big swap meets, Jet thought he saw the Exterminator again. Dark hair, flashy clothes, leaning against a dark-haired version of—yeah, Party Poison. Jet pushed his way through the crowd to where he thought he'd seen them, but they were gone. If they'd even been there at all. 

He touched his lips, feeling the whisper of a kiss, before heading back to his crew. His family.

-fin-


End file.
